


dear whoever you might be, i'm still waiting patiently

by elsaclack



Series: in every lifetime, i'll find you [2]
Category: Brooklyn Nine-Nine (TV)
Genre: F/M, One Shot Collection, Soulmate AU, but since rewritten or else otherwise revamped, originally written for tumblr years ago, soulmates feel each other's emotions au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-09
Updated: 2019-10-02
Packaged: 2019-11-14 05:12:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18046151
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/elsaclack/pseuds/elsaclack
Summary: Something happened half an hour ago. He’s not entirely sure what - hasn’t tried sussing it out beyond the initial bombardment - all he really knows is that he was home, on his couch, content with his Jurassic Park with limited commercial interruptions, and then it felt like the whole earth was falling to pieces and heknew.So maybe heissure about what happened - she’d mentioned as she left the precinct earlier that she had dinner plans with Teddy tonight. And it’s odd, how beyond his immediate concern for her, he feels his own undeniable sense of hope rising. His soulmate - who doesn’t know she’s his soulmate - is single once again.Finally.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> hi so here's the deal!!! a year or so ago i had a soulmate au wherein the soulmates can feel each other's emotions. it was kind of complicated - initially only one person of the couple can feel the other and it's kind of up to them to find their soulmate. once two soulmates have kissed for the first time, the connection kind of goes live, and they can _both_ feel each other's emotions. i can't begin to explain where or why i got that idea but i've had a very similar universe in my head since i was a kid and i finally found a way to translate that into an actual story lmao
> 
> so essentially this is a collection of one-shots set in that universe - some set before jake and amy kiss for the first time, some after. i originally did have some of these posted to the original elsaclack on tumblr but i never cross-posted them anywhere and my writing style has since evolved, so if you guys followed me on tumblr before i deleted last year, some of these may look familiar!!

Amy’s front door is incredibly old.

There are places between the grains of wood in which the paint seeped and morphed together before it dried, Jake notes.

He’s been staring at said grains for the better part of five minutes now - or, at least, that’s how long he’s been  _aware_ of the fact that he’s been staring at said grains. It’s really stupid, all things considered. Stupid that he’s paralyzed on her doorstep when he’s trudged across it more times than he can count. Stupid that he’s been standing here motionless for so long, he’s certain he looks like a weird stalker to any of her neighbors who might be looking through their peepholes out into the hall. Stupid that with every second that passes, the ice cream in this plastic bag melts a little more.

Stupid that every time he inhales, he feels her split and aching heart, feels her loneliness, feels her bitterness, all as real and intimate as if they are his own.

Something happened half an hour ago. He’s not entirely sure what - hasn’t tried sussing it out beyond the initial bombardment - all he really knows is that he was home, on his couch, content with his  _Jurassic Park_  with limited commercial interruptions, and then it felt like the whole earth was falling to pieces and he  _knew_.

So maybe he  _is_ sure about what happened - she’d mentioned as she left the precinct earlier that she had dinner plans with Teddy tonight. And it’s odd, how beyond his immediate concern for her, he feels his own undeniable sense of hope rising. His soulmate - who doesn’t know she’s his soulmate - is single once again.

 _Finally_.

 _Maybe_ , he’d told himself as he mindlessly snatched his keys off the counter and jogged out of his apartment.  _Maybe_.

“Amy?” He calls as he raps his knuckles against the door. Her emotions flicker in a familiar rhythm against his breast - a split-second of surprise, a mix of confusion and apprehension, a lick of irritation. “Ames, it’s me. You home?”

(Of course he knows she’s home, but this is all for her benefit, he’s not going to come gallivanting in ten minutes into her single-hood toting ice cream and a declaration of his undying love and an  _oh, yeah, I’ve been meaning to tell you I’m your soulmate_  -)

Her apprehension and irritation are gone now, giving way to a much larger portion of pure confusion. “Jake?” he hears her voice moving, muffled, but close beyond the closed door. The light seeping out through the peephole flickers as her head moves by. “What are you doing here?”

“I was in the neighborhood,” he says as nonchalantly as he can. “Your drug store had a better deal on ice cream - two-for-one.” He hoists the bag up a little higher, as if the opaque brown plastic will back his claim. “I figured since I was already in the neighborhood, I’d come by with dessert.”

Her confusion grows more intense - the light has not returned to the peephole. “I told you I had a date tonight,” she says slowly.

He’s lucky she can’t feel his emotions - otherwise, she’d register the spike of panic jutting up in his chest. “Oh, that was  _tonight_?” His voice cracks beneath the pressure of his scrambling ruse; the skin of his forehead is in danger of ripping for how grotesquely his brows have contorted into what he can only hope is an expression of shock. “I thought you said that was  _tomorrow_!”

“No, tonight.”

“Maybe it really is time to invest in one of those planny-thingies.”

“Why, so you can keep track of my date schedule? And don’t pretend like you don’t know they’re called planners, you got me one for Secret Santa last year.” There’s a savagery to her tone echoed by a twist of pain in her chest; he opens his mouth, but her immediate pulse of regret gives him pause. “I’m sorry,” she says, now much quieter, and he can’t pretend to hide his concern any longer.

(It’s not like he’d have to work that hard to come up with an excuse - she’s practically an open book, especially to him, even with a closed door between them, and it certainly doesn’t help that he’s an amazing detective-slash-genius.)

“Are you okay?”

The pain in her chest seems to wrench a little wider, pierce a little deeper. “I don’t know,” she says, and the light in the peephole reappears a split-second before something solid thunks against the door from the other side.

(Her forehead, he’d be willing to bet.)

“Do you want me to leave?”

The part of her that seems to jump at that suggestion is a bit of a blow to his ego, but it’s nothing compared to what the skittish panic that flares to life the moment the question leaves his lips does. He hears her sigh again - hears the metallic sounds of a hand landing on the doorknob - hears silence. And then -

“No.”

\- so small and quiet, he almost misses it.

“Do you want me to come inside?”

“I don’t know.”

And she really doesn’t, he notes.

“I promise I won’t judge,” he offers. “You don’t even have to tell me what happened if you don’t want to. If - if something, y’know, uh, happened. You don’t have to talk at all, we can just - we can sit and watch TV and eat ice cream and I can run my mouth until it’s just like white noise.”

She’s quiet as she deliberates. “What kind of ice cream?”

“Cherry Garcia,  _obviously_.”

A pulse of gratitude and affection and something else he doesn’t exactly have a name for warms his chest as the lock on her front door slides out of place. “I just - I need to warn you,” she says before she opens the door. “Don’t say a word.”

She opens the door before he has a chance to clarify, and the moment she does he understands - it’s clear that she’s been crying. And he well and truly hates himself for the first thought that pops into his stupid reptilian brain:

She is the most beautiful person that has ever existed.

Her cheeks are red - rubbed raw from her swiping fingers and probably tissues to blot away any running mascara that streaked down toward her jawline. There are no tears glistening in her eyes or clinging like dew drops to her eyelashes, but the whites of her eyes are still a little bloodshot, and the browns of her pupils are intense pools of chocolate that seem to pierce his very soul in the brief split-second she allows herself to meet his gaze. Even her lips look darker than usual - probably stains leftover from whatever lipstick she’d so carefully drawn on just to haphazardly wipe away.

It honestly takes him a minute to even register the fact that her hair is thrown up in a knotted, wild bun, and that her frame is essentially hidden beneath the baggy layers of a massively over-sized Cheap Trick concert t-shirt and the rattiest grey sweatpants he’s ever laid eyes on. All in all, he’s very obviously walked into the immediate aftermath of an Amy Santiago break-up.

And she is the  _most beautiful_  person that has  _ever existed_.

“I  _said_ don’t say a word.” she repeats, this time through grit teeth. He panics for a split second, ready to dump the ice cream on the floor and fling himself out the window if he’d subconsciously spoken that totally stalker-esque monologue out loud, before his awareness catches up to him and he realizes he’s been staring. Motionless and staring, actually. Or, well, more like motionless and  _gaping_ and staring. A quick assessment of her emotions confirms, she’s not feeling shock - she’s embarrassed and self-conscious. She thinks he’s judging her.

Well that simply won’t do.

“I’m just waiting for you to go turn the TV on so I can get spoons,” he says as he gestures toward the kitchen, hoping his bravado sounds more natural than it feels.

Suspicion has joined the maelstrom of emotions storming through her chest, but it only seems to manifest in her slightly narrowed eyes; she backs away a pace, and then two, before finally turning away and trotting out into her living room. He releases the breath still caught in his chest in one quick huff, and shakes his head as if to clear the cotton suddenly stuffed there as he makes his way toward her silverware drawer.

“It’s the third drawer to the right of the dishwasher,” he hears her call as he pulls the drawer open.

“I know,” he says, letting an ounce of indigence color his voice. “You think I don’t know where your silverware is?”

“I don’t know!” she says, and not for the first time he’s so grateful that she’s his soulmate - otherwise he’d be left wondering if she was kidding beneath the miles-thick layer of outrage ringing with her words, instead of feeling that little bud of amusement in the center of everything else. “Teddy never figured out where it was and we dated for nearly a  _year_ , you’ve only been over here, like, ten times!”

He’s also thankful for the wall standing between them at this moment - the wall that covers his involuntary wince, accented by stabbing the spoons through both pliant ice cream surfaces at the same time. “Well,” he says as he gracefully lifts both ice cream cartons and eases the drawer closed with his hip at the same time, “that’s the difference between me and Ted-odore - I’m a detective. I remember details.”

Her expression is equal parts disgruntled, thankful, and annoyed when he makes his way into her living room. “Teddy’s also a detective,” she reminds him as she plucks her carton of ice cream from his hand.

“Ah, but only _I_  am an amazing detective- _slash-genius_ ,” he reminds her. They sit at the same time - her carefully, pulling a blanket from the back of the couch over one shoulder and folding a leg under her in one movement, him flopping back, the force of his body connecting with the cushions just short of hard enough to jostle the narrow table behind the couch.

It’s the end of the conversation for quite a while - long enough that they get through an entire episode of  _The Office_  without interruption, long enough that half of his ice cream is gone and his fingers are well and truly numb. It’s just long enough that he knows she’s absorbed in what she’s watching - her eyes never deviate from the screen, and the inner turmoil seems to quiet down to some distant back-burner in her mind. Just long enough, he thinks, for him to do a little surreptitious investigating from right here on her couch, without her ever noticing.

He turns to his right, away from her, pretending to cast around on the table behind the couch for a coaster upon which to set his ice cream. He already knows there’s a stack of three on the coffee table eight inches from his knees - the fourth is on the other side of the coffee table, beneath Amy’s quarter-finished ice cream - but he also happens to know that she has a nice set of geode-looking coasters stacked neatly on this table, equal parts artistic and utilitarian, and (if he’s not mistaken) identical to the ones he’d spotted at Captain Holt’s house some eighteen months earlier.

He pretends to grapple for them - they’re two inches to the right of where his hand is currently grasping - all while studying the scene laid out on the dining room table just visible from this angle. There are still dishes there - dirty dishes, if he’s not mistaken - which is, of course, highly uncharacteristic for the woman to whom they belong. It’s clear the meal was in progress when… _something_ happened. Something abrupt and unexpected, something shocking - something that clearly rocked her to her very core, drudging up feelings of isolation and loneliness and a few others he recognizes from the dark weeks that followed his father leaving all those years ago.

He’s practically bursting at the seams with desperation to know  _why_.

The light piano theme song plays over the end credits just as Amy loudly and  _pointedly_ clears her throat, and he winces as his fingers close over the coaster he was seeking. “You’re not as sly as you think you are, Mr. Genius,” she mutters as he rights himself on the couch again.

He sighs as he leans forward to set his coaster and carton on her coffee table. “You don’t have to talk about it,” he reiterates, and he knows from her quiet calm resonating near his heart that she truly understands that he means it. “I just - y’know, I wanna, um. Make sure that you’re okay, and stuff.”

She doesn’t look at him. The next episode is already queuing, seconds away from starting automatically, but her eyes are now glazed as she chews the inside of her cheek. Movement by her hip catches his eye - her fingers drum restlessly along the side of the remote, the only outward sign of her visceral inner turmoil, now back to center stage.

“I wanna talk about it,” she says haltingly, thumb mashing down on the pause button. “I do, I - I  _need_ to talk about it. I just -”

-  _don’t want to_ , he finishes in his mind after she falls silent again. Even if he didn’t have a front-row seat to the weighing of emotions happening in her gut, he could easily follow through her facial expressions - even the nano-expressions, the ones that really don’t even fully register before they’re gone, replaced by the next. 

“It - it  _sucks_ , okay?” she finally says. “This whole situation just  _sucks_.”

He remains silent.

“We were, like ten minutes into dinner and everything was going fine. I was telling him about that perp Charles and I took out behind the bakery earlier, and how Charles refused to leave the scene until he’d sampled literally everything the bakery sold, and when I looked up I realized he’d spilled wine all over himself while I was talking but he hadn’t even noticed it because - because -”

She draws in a ragged inhale; he can feel it dragging like knives across his heart.

“I’ve never heard of a connection manifesting that late in someone’s life,” she says after a moment of composition. “I mean - I know it’s possible, obviously, I’ve read articles about it and everything, but I’ve never known anyone who’s had that happen to them. It’s always young kids to teenagers, that’s when it’s most common for the connection to start - Teddy’s  _thirty-seven years old_. He didn’t think he was the receptive one in his partnership. He didn’t think he  _had_ a partner. But he does, and he felt them for the first time half-way through my story about Charles shotgunning a croissant. And it wasn’t me.”

The silence is thick and swelling in his head, and the temptation to scream the truth is almost overwhelming for all of two seconds. He’s not certain he would have been able to keep his composure, if not for her stark feelings of inadequacy roiling with her heartache radiating through his chest.

“That doesn’t mean there’s something wrong with you,” he starts, far more tentatively than he would like. She rolls her eyes. “Hey, I mean it. There’s nothing wrong with you, Amy.”

“That’s easy for you to say,” she mutters, “you’ve felt your soulmate since you were  _seven years old_. All I’ve had for my entire life is radio silence. Every single one of my brothers is the receptive one in their partnerships. I’m the only one of all my siblings. My parents had already met and were dating as teenagers when their connection started. I am literally the only person in my immediate family who doesn’t feel a connection. It’s not that outlandish to assume I’m the defect, here.”

“Maybe you’re just not the receptive one,” he counters, determination growing with every ounce of inwardly-focused disdain he feels pouring through her very veins. “Maybe there’s someone out there right now who can feel everything you’re feeling, who’s hurting just as bad as you are  _because_ you’re hurting so bad right now. Maybe there’s someone who’s been looking for you for his entire life, who’s looking that much harder so he can prove to you that you’re not defective, you’re not a mistake, you’re not worthless.” She’s staring at him full-on now, brows furrowed, intently focused on his every word. “You’re one of the kindest, most thoughtful and amazing people I know, Ames. Your soulmate is out there and as soon as you find each other, I  _promise,_ this will  _all_ be worth the wait. Don’t be so mean to yourself because some chump missed out on the opportunity of a lifetime so he can go out hunting for a soulmate while covered in red wine stains. Okay?”

She seems to hesitate, before the corners of her mouth twitch against a smile. “Okay,” she says softly.

He’s not sure how and he’s not sure why, but he does know one thing: something in the air has shifted.

He isn’t able to put a name to it until three weeks later, when he finds himself back in that very same apartment on that very same couch, the very same ice cream in his hands, the very same episode queued up and ready to start on the television somewhere off to his right. He’s paying it very little attention, in all honesty - he’s far too enthralled by the gorgeous woman in the red dress on the other end of the couch, toeing off her heels beneath her coffee table and settling in in much the same position as before.

(Save for the silky black curls swept over one shoulder so as not to drip ice cream in them, of course.)

He’s watching her shift, watching the kinetic energy burn through her rolling ankles and curling toes and twitching nose and drumming fingers. She seems intently focused on her ice cream - the very same carton from which she’d eaten the last time he was here - but he knows there’s a level of awareness of his gaze on her.

Just as she knows that he knows.

It hits him here, in this moment: she  _knew_.

“You knew,” he says. Her eyes flick up to his face and all at once, his suspicions are confirmed. “You  _knew_!”

“Knew what?”

“The last time I was here, before I left, I felt something change. I couldn’t figure out what it was, but now I know - you knew I was your soulmate before I left that night, didn’t you?”

It’s the first time they’ve really talked about it since their confrontation in the evidence lock-up - since the electrifying kiss that followed it - and as her smile blossoms, her amusement peaks. “I had a feeling,” she corrects.

“What gave it away?”

“What, you mean how did I know? The kiss was a pretty good hint -”

“Yeah, but you weren’t really shocked after that. I mean, you  _were_ , but - not about it being  _me_. What gave  _me_ away?”

“I  _knew_ three days ago when we were raiding the warehouse and I got ambushed by that guy and you came flying in before he could even pin me to the wall. But I had a feeling after you gave your little speech about how I’m basically the greatest human being on the planet and you mentioned my soulmate feeling emotions that I  _know_ I didn’t put into words.”

“ _Damn_ it,” he mutters, letting his shoulders fall back against the cushions behind him. She laughs, delighted, and the sound is like pure sunlight bubbling between his ribs. “After all these years, I can’t believe I just straight slipped up. Right to your face, too! I’d always assumed it would be Charles who screwed up.”

A wave of surprise washes over her, but she suppresses it a moment later. “We’ll talk more later,” she says with a smile. “Right now, I wanna try something else.”

She leans forward to set her carton on her coaster and a second later she pounces, pinning him back against the cushions, hovering over him. Her grin has gone Cheshire and her fingers are closing over his before pulling his own carton out of his hand; he releases a breathless laugh as she leans away, just far enough to reach the coffee table, before resuming her position over him. “This is new,” he says.

“It is,” she confirms. “Also new? You feeling unsure of something.”

“Hey,” he snaps, “I’m always unsure of things. You’ve never known because I’m good at hiding it.”

“Not anymore.”

She leans down before he can respond, until her lips are a breath away from his. He can feel his heart tripping in his chest and he knows she can feel it, too - breathless anticipation radiates and sparks like a livewire between them, igniting every last nerve ending, like a fuse lit seconds away from exploding. “Whoa,” he chokes, hands fumbling before landing on her hips.

“Intense,” she breathes back, apparently to enthralled by the build-up to dare take the plunge. “Did it always feel like this?”

“Never actually done this before,” he mutters.

She pulls back an inch - just far enough for him to see her roll her eyes in accompaniment with her wave of exasperation crashing through his chest. “I just mean - this, us, our - our connection. Was it always this intense?”

“No,” he shakes his head, acutely aware of the fact that his hands are still on her hips and he can feel the heat of her skin through the red material. “N-no, never. I mean - when you were feeling something intense, it was kind of strong? But now that it’s a two-way street, so to speak, it’s -  _everything_ is way more intense.  _Especially_ this.”

She hums thoughtfully, gaze fixated on a spot on the cushion just over his left shoulder, before she suddenly seems to remember herself and where she is. He grins up at her when she blinks herself back into focus - and the twist of affection in her chest is almost cruel for how blinding and savage it is.

“ _Wow_ ,” she breathes, lifting up a little higher to press her fingertips to her sternum.

“Sorry,” he mumbles a bit sheepishly. “I just - I’m  _really_ into you.”

“I can  _feel_ that,” she says with a laugh. Her hand falls from her chest much closer to his face than before; he briefly closes his eyes at the feeling of her fingers carding through his hair, part curious, part reverent. “I’m  _really_ into you, too.”

He grins again before lightly pinching her hip, laughing when she thumps both heels of her hands against his chest in retaliation. “I can feel that,” he echoes before bending his knees, bringing her teetering forward, back to her original position of a breath away from his lips. This time he cranes his head up to catch her before she can draw back; like both times before, the meld of her lips against his brings everything else to a screeching halt. Her hands splay out gently on either side of his face as his slide up the dips of her waist to skim up her back, thumbs sweeping out over the defined ridge of her lowest ribs.

She pulls away after an eternity, after a split second, lips dark and shiny as she gasps for air; she closes her eyes when he reaches up to move her hair back over her shoulder, so that nothing impedes his view of her face. “You were right,” she mumbles breathlessly.

“Huh?”

“You were right,” she repeats, with a little more conviction than before. “This was worth the wait.  _You_ were worth the wait.”

It’s the last coherent thing either one of them says until morning.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She’s facing the vending machines when he steps inside, affording him a moment to just watch her shift her weight from foot to foot. The burning conviction he’d felt is still there, though less-pronounced now; she’s mostly consumed with deliberation, as if choosing what plastic-wrapped crap snack is the most healthy option for breakfast. She tilts her head to the right - likely trying to read the nutrition facts on the powdered donut packaging - and a lock of dark hair escaped from her pristine bun slips from behind her ear to lightly graze against the shoulder pad of her pantsuit jacket.
> 
> Oh, god, his soulmate wears pantsuits.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i got an ask on tumblr about this au that killed me!!!! it went: "Girl your recent soulmate AU fic!! It was…Poetic Cinema. The hurt/comfort. The pining and smitten Jake. Amy’s “You were worth the wait.” Gosh everything about it was so beautiful. I love it a lot! If you don’t mind, would you write a fic of when they’re talking about soulmates? The line where Amy reminds Jake that he’s felt his soulmate since he was 7 intrigued me and I’d love to read how that convo went. Love your writing and can’t wait to read what you write next!" so while the original plan was to revamp the oneshots i already had and post them here, i CANNOT RESIST THE OPPORTUNITY TO GO I N ON SOME QUALITY MUTUAL PINING SET IN THIS UNIVERSE

His chest feels heated with the intensity of her frustration.

It’s been going on all morning - growing stronger by the hour - and if he weren’t so exhausted and hungover from his evening out with Rosa and Charles the night before, he might have the wherewithal to worry.

As it is, he contents himself with the fresh coffee wafting out of the paper cup in his hand and the knowledge that he’s only fifteen minutes late today instead of his standard thirty.

Amy’s voice reaches him the moment the elevator doors slide open, and he can’t help himself - he grimaces into his cup. Because he recognizes that tone: lofty, arrogant, know-it-all lecturer, at the absolute peak of her soap box in the break room. Her conviction is a burning ember glowing bright inside his chest; through the partially opened blinds he sees her standing near the vending machines, turned inward toward the table where Rosa and Terry are held captive, face scrunched just so the way it does when she’s in the midst of a debate.

Inwardly, he sighs.

Charles is waiting for him, hovering near his desk, gaze flitting between him and the break room with blatant nerves. “Hey,” he says, and though his tone is gentle, it grates against Jake’s head like nails to a chalkboard. “You hungover?”

“Yeah,” Jake grunts, letting his messenger’s bag fall from his shoulder and collapsing back into his seat in one movement. “What’s got her all riled up?”

“I don’t know, I just got here,” Charles settles in Jake’s guest chair and leans in, elbows planted on his knees, as if they’re sharing some big secret. “I think she’s talking about the nature of free will?”

“Wow,” Jake toggles his mouse until his computer screen lights up. “Sounds fascinating. Ya’ think closing that door will drown her out?”

“I doubt it. Jake,” Charles leans in closer and Jake pauses, fingers hovering over his keyboard. “I think it has to do with soulmates.”

He’s not certain - he has no way of being certain - but he’s pretty sure he manages to keep his composure despite the block of ice suddenly dropping into his gut. “Okay,” he says slowly - and blessedly, his voice remains steady. “Am I supposed to care about that?”

A look of bewilderment passes over Charles’ face, before indignation takes its place. “I  _know_ she’s your soulmate, Jake,” he hisses, leaning back as Jake jerks forward.

“Keep it  _down_ ,” Jake hisses back, glancing over his shoulder at the break room. He can’t see her face but her voice is still carrying - and her emotions remain steady, not an ounce of shock among them. “How the hell do you know that?”

“You told me. Last night. After your  _fifth_ whiskey. Five-Drink-Jake is a chatterbox, I tell ya’ -”

“Does anyone else know? Rosa?”

“She was gone by then. Unless you told the cabby on your way home, I’m the only one who knows.”

Jake huffs out a breath and drops his head, relief overwhelming for a moment, before snapping back to attention and leaning in closer. “You can’t tell anyone.”

“Jake -”

“I  _mean it_ , Boyle,  _no one_  can find out about this.”

“You  _have_ to -”

“I’m not ready for that yet, and it sounds like  _she_ isn’t, either.” He hooks a thumb over his shoulder in the general direction of the break room; Charles’ anguished gaze flits from his face to the door and back again. “ _Promise me_  you won’t tell  _anyone_ about this.”

Charles stares for a moment, before his shoulders drop. “Y’know I’ve been looking for my soulmate for almost twenty  _years_?” he says softly. “I’d give - I’d give  _anything_ to find them. And the minute I  _do_ find them…I don’t want to waste another  _second_.”

He leans back in his seat - triumph filtering in through the earnestness - and Jake drops his gaze and bites out a sigh. “This is so not the time or place,” he mutters, “and I’m hungover as hell - I hate Drunk Jake.”

Charles snorts and prods his arm, forcing his chair to roll backwards. “Go,” he says, “Rosa and Terry just left, she’s alone in there.”

“Alright, alright,” Jake grumbles, hauling himself up to his feet and snatching his coffee cup off his desk before trotting off toward the break room.

She’s facing the vending machines when he steps inside, affording him a moment to just watch her shift her weight from foot to foot. The burning conviction he’d felt is still there, though less-pronounced now; she’s mostly consumed with deliberation, as if choosing what plastic-wrapped crap snack is the most healthy option for breakfast. She tilts her head to the right - likely trying to read the nutrition facts on the powdered donut packaging - and a lock of dark hair escaped from her pristine bun slips from behind her ear to lightly graze against the shoulder pad of her pantsuit jacket.

Oh, god, his soulmate wears pantsuits.

He turns his attention to the coffee table and clears his throat, biting the inside of his cheek to keep from grinning in response to her genuine pulse of fear accompanying her quiet gasp. “I’d go for the jumbo honey bun,” he says as he measures out his cream. “Those are fresh. Vending machine dude just loaded ‘em in on Monday.”

“They’re also… _half_ your recommended daily caloric intake,” she says; he allows himself to grin, now, because the amusement in her voice echoes ten times louder in his chest. “Honestly, it’s shocking that you’re such a high-functioning human being and not…constantly going into glucose-related shock.”

“Hey,” he turns his head and finds her staring at him, brows slightly furrowed, eyes lit. “You think I’m high-functioning?”

She rolls her eyes and turns back toward the vending machine, but he can still feel her struggling between amusement and exasperation. “I’d say you’re high-functioning for someone who puts his body through as much abuse as you do. High-functioning in general? That’s a whole different conversation.”

He laughs as he stirs his cream in - and a thrill crashes through him, one entirely unrelated to his own amusement. He glances over his shoulder to find her watching him, her grin somehow bright and half-hidden at once.

His heart skips a beat.

“So…I heard you in here talking to Terry and Rosa earlier.”

Her amusement fades fast; an odd mix of embarrassment and defensiveness take its place. “Yeah,” she says - and her voice is definitely guarded. “I just - uh, we were talking about soulmates. I guess I got a little loud.”

He leans back against the table, still stirring, watching her run her finger down the glass in an ill-fated attempt and seeming nonchalant. “I couldn’t hear what you were actually saying,” he says after a moment - and a minuscule pulse of relief bursts somewhere down in the pit of his belly. “I could just hear that you sounded kind of upset.”

He lets the statement hang, lets it ruminate in her mind. Dozens of emotions are flitting through his chest, so quickly it’s nearly dizzying; she braces a hand on the side of the vending machine and sighs, leaning forward until her forehead audibly clunks against the glass. “My brother…found his soulmate last night.”

Despite the fact that a distinct heaviness clings to both her words and his heart, he feels his brows rise toward his hairline instinctively. “Well that’s - that’s good, right? Isn’t…finding his soulmate a good thing?”

“In theory,” she grumbles; he winces in time with her own pulse of regret. “I mean, yeah, of course it is.” She turns slowly and leans backwards, until her shoulders press against the glass. “I just - it’s got me thinking, is all. He’s the fifth one of us to find his soulmate - it’s just me and two other brothers at this point.”

“And, what, you’re worried you’ll be the last one? Or that - that you’ll never find yours?”

“I’m just frustrated by the whole idea of soulmates in general.” she snaps. “I mean - think about it! Objectively speaking, the concept of two people who have never met before being, like, perfect for each other - or, or completing each other, being each other’s perfect half - whatever metaphor you wanna use! Objectively speaking, it’s completely screwed up! We want to believe that we as humans are afforded the right of basic free will, right? That our lives are anything we want them to be because we get to make our own decisions and choose our own paths, right? Well, if we don’t get to choose who we love - if some big cosmic entity just randomly pairs us all up, the idea of free will itself is a big sham! Who’s to say we don’t have soulmate jobs, or soulmate apartments, or soulmate clothes - who’s to say that  _any_ of our choices in life are our own?”

She’s breathing hard, the vending machine forgotten, and Jake’s struggling to remember how to form words. “I-I don’t - I don’t think it’s that deep, Santiago,” he manages to rasp. “It’s not like - it’s not like you’re losing some part of yourself when you find your soulmate. Look at Terry and Sharon. They just happened to meet at a random farmer’s market and they’ve been  _so_ happy ever since, but Terry never would have looked twice at her if he hadn’t felt her freak out when that guy stole her purse -”

“I just - I don’t want some random person I don’t know to come gallivanting into my life, thinking they’re entitled to some part of me, because someone else said so.” she interrupts, quieter than before. “I want someone to choose me because they want  _me_. Not just because I’m their soulmate, and not because the universe made the decision for them. I want them to choose me, and I want to choose them, too.”

“Huh,” he hears himself breathe. “I’ve never actually thought about it that way.”

The tips of her ears flush pink as a wave of self-consciousness washes over him. “You just - assumed your soulmate would eventually find you and everything would be perfect?”

“No. I assumed I’d find my soulmate and everything would be perfect.”

Amy’s chin lifts a degree. “You’re receptive?”

He taps his chest. “Since I was seven years old.”

Her brows raise and her surprise is genuine. “ _Seven_ ,” she repeats softly, and he nods. “That’s so  _young_.” He pulls a long sip from his coffee, watching her process. “Must be a strong connection.”

He lowers his cup slowly, coffee swishing between his teeth before he swallows. He blinks, and behind his eyelids he sees the chalk-scribbled pavement, hears the distant shouts of a soccer game in progress, feels the ghost of her sheer panic squeezing his chest for the very first time. “I’d like to think so,” he admits as the memory fades, voice barely above a whisper.

She presses her lips together as she nods, before inhaling and plastering on a smile. “Let me know when you find them,” she says with a brightness he knows she does not feel.

“Oh, trust me,” he says as he pushes off the table, “you’ll be the first to know.”

* * *

“You sarcastic sunnovabitch.”

Jake blinks, frozen half-way through the motion of licking his ice cream cone. Amy’s staring at him like he’s just gone and grown a second head, her own ice cream dripping down her cone, dangerously close to her fingers. “I’m sorry,” he says once he’s recovered, “what did I do?”

“I just got it,” she says, smug and self-assured, and her conviction tickles in the space between his ribs. “I  _just_ understood your stupid little inside joke.”

“…’kay, wanna fill me in, then? ‘Cause I definitely don’t get it.”

“You once told me that I’d be the first to know when you found your soulmate.” He furrows his brow, before the memory comes flooding back all at once. “I thought you were just being your usual annoyingly sarcastic self, but you were  _messing_ with me, weren’t you?”

“I’m  _always_ messing with you, Santiago,” he nudges her side with his elbow and she huffs, playfully indignant. “But, yeah, I was definitely messing with you then.”

“Well that  _officially_ makes you a liar.  _J’accuse_!”

He lets out an indignant squawk around his ice cream. “I  _never_ lied to you about us being soulmates!”

“Excuse me, but you most certainly did lie!”

“I need receipts or I’m not paying, lady.”

“You told me I’d be the first to know when you found your soulmate - otherwise known as  _me_ \- but you admitted yourself on our first date that you told  _Charles_ first!”

“When I was  _drunk_! My critical thinking skills were compromised! My judgement impaired! Sober Jake would  _never_ in a  _million years_  -”

“Dissociate and place blame all you want, Peralta, you lied and I caught you red-handed.”

It’s hard to maintain the facade of defense when her amusement and affection are just short of suffocating; after a moment of grappling, he breaks, a broad grin splitting across his face, which she immediately mirrors. “Fine,” he sighs - not an ounce of dejection anywhere in sight. “I’m sorry that I lied and said you’d be the first to know when I actually drunkenly told Charles first. How can I  _ever_ make it up to you?”

She pretends to mull it over - she pretends she can’t feel every last ounce of his affection rearing up like a tidal wave at the way the neon pawn shop lights glow against her skin - and then her bright, happy gaze fixates on his face. “You can take me back to my apartment and pretend to watch a movie while we make out on the couch instead.”

“If I  _have_ to.”

She lets out a laugh and snatches his hand, but before she can bound off down the street, he tugs her back with just enough force that she stumbles, right into his chest. He swallows her surprised gasp, humming at the mingling taste of his chocolate ice cream and her strawberry; there’s a distinct splat of her ice cream hitting the sidewalk as she lifts both arms up over his shoulders to curl around the back of his neck, curving his back just slightly to better reach her.

“Never gets old,” she whispers against his lips, fingers gently combing through his hair as they slowly break apart.

“You know what else never gets old?”

“Hm?”

“Die Hard.”

“We are not watching Die Hard. Absolutely not.”

“What if I’m the big spoon tonight?”

“Nope.”

“What if I’m the big spoon and I make pancakes in the morning?”

“You’re gonna have to do better than that.”

“Big spoon, pancakes, and I’ll convince Rosa to sub in for you on that stakeout with Charles next week so you can go to that exhibit at the Met?”

"One more try?"

"Bit spoon, pancakes, Rosa subs in for you, and I go with you to that exhibit at the Met?"

“You really  _are_ my soulmate, aren’t you?”


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> He didn’t ask for this, for the record. He was perfectly happy keeping their connection a secret and carrying it all the way to his grave, probably. Amy kissed _him_ , not the other way around, thank you very much.
> 
> (He was probably going to tell her soon, anyways, because it’s been eating away at him like a virus and he’s pretty sure there’s science to prove that being around your soulmate without telling them they’re your soulmate for as long as he has been around Amy has physical side-effects in addition to being, like, a _massive_ bummer.)

So here’s the thing: it’s two o’clock in the morning, Jake’s smells like trash, and he’s about two-and-a-half minutes away from completely losing his mind. It should be noted, of course, that his teetering on the precipice of madness is entirely unrelated to the ungodly hour and his ungodly stench (though, to be fair, neither are helping) except by the furthest, narrowest of circumstances - that is to say, he could be fresh out of the shower at nine in the morning and still feel the tendrils of panic squeezing ever tighter round his heart.

So, here’s the thing: he’s panicking, and panicking some more, because for all of his feelings of panic stifling each inhale, Amy’s poorly-restrained anxiety rears up tenfold from the deepest dredges of his chest. It’s just his luck, he supposes, that his soulmate is such an anxious person by nature; normally it’s nothing he can’t handle, but with his current state of mind and his inherent inability to regulate his own emotions, Amy’s pretty much on her own.

Except that isn’t entirely true, is it, because here’s the thing: he’s panicking, and she can feel it. She can exactly how piss-poor he truly is at managing his panic, so it’s really no wonder that she’s panicking, because she always seems more panicky when he seems panicky and now she can feel exactly how panicky he is and god, who thought of this whole sharing-emotions-with-your-soulmate bullshit?

He didn’t ask for this, for the record. He was perfectly happy keeping their connection a secret and carrying it all the way to his grave, probably. Amy kissed  _him_ , not the other way around, thank you very much.

(He was probably going to tell her soon, anyways, because it’s been eating away at him like a virus and he’s pretty sure there’s science to prove that being around your soulmate without telling them they’re your soulmate for as long as he has been around Amy has physical side-effects in addition to being, like, a  _massive_ bummer.)

It seems wherever she is (somewhere in the back of the precinct in this very floor, he’s pretty sure, like either the evidence lockup or the bathroom or something) she’s at least partially aware of the effect her anxiety is having on Jake - he can feel her familiar attempts at tamping it all down, probably the result of her doing a breathing exercise he’s coached her through in the past. It works, if only a little; he can feel his own head clearing, his racing thoughts slowing, until the blurriness to his vision sharpens and he can hear himself breathe over the blood pounding in his ears.

He’s not even fully aware of his own thankfulness until he feels Amy’s bewilderment - and of course she’s bewildered, why wouldn’t she be bewildered at his thankfulness invading her mind like alien baby chest-bursters.

His newly-cleared vision lands on a slightly crumpled post-it taped to the bottom of his computer monitor -  _get a grip tonto_ , it tells him in Rosa’s scrawl - and he inhales deeply through his nose, letting the words reverberate around his skull. Get a grip, get a grip, get a grip.

It’s probably more of a reflection on him than it is on her that, despite his somewhat-diminished sense of world-ending panic, he can’t quite get the unevolved caveman part of his brain to stop replaying their first kiss. It’s not his fault - Amy Santiago is a good kisser, even under all the duress and pressure of an undercover mission seconds away from going sideways. She’s a good kisser when she’s sporting a gruesome black eye, a good kisser when she’s out of breath, a good kisser when she’s falling, a good kisser at the bottom of one of the nastiest dumpsters Jake’s ever had the misfortune of smelling in his life. Even if nothing else ever happens and he spends the rest of his life replaying this one memory on a loop, he’ll get it tattooed to his forehead:

Amy Santiago is a good, good kisser.

But, the fact still remains: he never asked for this.

He definitely  _hoped_ for this, but he never asked for it.

He kind of asked for it.

It’s not his  _fault_.

It was a natural reaction - anyone who was in his place would have done the same thing, dammit! She’s his partner and she was in danger - and, okay, maybe the only reason he knew that in the moment was because he felt her sudden spike of shock and fear more than he heard knuckles connecting with flesh and her responding gasp of pain in the room he’d just crept out of. But the fact still stands - he would have gone and thrown that jerk off of any of his fellow detectives.

He would have gotten just as much savage, feral pleasure at punching that perp’s lights out. He would have yanked any of his fellow detectives into a bone-crushing hug. Just as Amy would have pulled any of the other detectives into a panic undercover kiss upon hearing their other perps coming back toward them at the commotion.

Right.

Amy Santiago is a good kisser, even when she’s unwittingly establishing their soulmate connection and feeling every last ounce of his emotion flood her nervous system for the very first time.

(He tries not to think about the fact that she’d gasped into his mouth or that she’d gone stiff as a board in his arms for all of one-second - tries to chalk it up to the sound of their perps storming in somewhere behind them and wolf-whistling at their display, too distracted by them to notice their companion out cold on the floor at their feet.)

And he really tries not to think about his stupid, fumbling attempts at leading them out the back door into the alley behind the warehouse before the perps caught on - about how he’d misjudged the distance, sending them both toppling over the edge of the loading dock and straight into the open dumpster below.

(And the weight of her settling over them even as they’d both grunted on impact - how she’d pulled back for a second, eyes blown wide, before leaning back in - how he’s still not sure if the desperation he’d seen in her eyes was case-related or  _them_ -related.)

It was messy, and stupid, and so completely and utterly them - and the fact that they managed to make all of their arrests gives him hope that someday, they might be able to laugh about this.

Of course, the fact that she did not speak one word directly to him and studiously avoided his gaze the whole way back to the precinct gives him severe anxiety.

It’s two-o’clock in the morning and his connection to Amy is a living, breathing entity - what was a soothing glimmer as delicate as spider’s silk glows bright an overwhelming now, rearing up and glittering like ocean waves beneath a setting sun. She’s everywhere, she’s everything, and he’s certain now that he won’t be able to live without her, and maybe that’s not the best thing to be thinking at two o’clock in the morning when he smells like a dumpster and there are half-finished arrest reports strewn about his desk, but it doesn’t matter.

Because the hailstorm of emotions originating from Amy suddenly taper off into a quiet and firm kind of resolution - and Jake’s stomach bottoms out at the feeling. He can’t tell around his own stupid anxiety if she’s happy or sad or angry or anything other than calm - it’s the exact opposite of the way he feels, only more so when his phone buzzes with a new text.

Will you please meet me in the evidence lockup?

She doesn’t have to ask if he’s still at the precinct, he notes with a certain amount of trepidation as he pockets his phone and slowly stands from his desk. She’s only felt his emotions for a matter of hours, now, and already she can read them well enough to deduce that he’s been paralyzed at his desk since they got back.

It would be comforting, if he wasn’t so freaked out.

She’s tucked toward the back of the evidence lockup when he slowly edges inside, leaned back against the shelves, arms crossed loosely over her chest. She straightens a little when the door squeaks on its hinges; he winces, both at the sound and at the fact that her face is entirely unreadable. She’s pulled her hair up into a low, loose bun in the time that has passed since he last saw her - a move he recognizes from her previous panic attacks, a half-conscious effort to allow cool air to touch the back of her neck. He forces himself to keep moving toward her for as long as he can stand it - all in, he stops about five feet short from where she’s standing, hands jammed so deep in his pockets he’s at risk of ripping holes through the seams.

Amy stares at him for a long moment, the only sound in the room the quiet mechanical whir of the precinct’s computer servers against the wall to his left. He tries to hold her gaze, really - it proves to be too much, the way the blinking server lights reflect off the molten brown chocolate of her irises, seconds away from piercing the very foundation of his soul. He focuses instead of her hands - on the way her fingers twist around her grandmother’s ring, knotting together in a way that reminds him of the knots in his own stomach. He inhales through his nose, holds it for a beat, and slowly releases it through barely-parted lips.

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Her voice is soft, curious; not an ounce of accusation colors her words. His heart leaps unbidden at the sound of her voice and her eyes practically double in circumference. “Jake, I…” she trails, her fingers pressing briefly over her heart. “Why didn’t you tell me?”

He rocks back on his heels, fighting his flight instinct urging him to shrug. “I don’t, um…I just, I didn’t want you to, y’know, feel…obligated.”

Her swell of affection is undeniable; he peers up at her through his lashes to find her gaze soft and a little bit sad.

Boldness sweeps through him.

“I mean, you were right about all of this - the choice part of it, I mean. I knew you were my soulmate the day I met you, but -”

He’s nearly knocked breathless at the sudden punch of disbelief from Amy. “Eight  _years_?” she whispers, and he bites the inside of his cheek. “You’ve known for  _eight years_?”

“Uh-huh,” he curls his fingers inside his pockets, twisting the fabric of his jacket between his nails. “I mean, it was rough at first - we weren’t exactly best friends, remember? And I thought I was wrong for a while, too, but I - I wasn’t. And, I dunno, I was starting to come around to the idea of telling you about it when -”

He stops, drops his chin, stares at the fraying seams of his sneakers. “When, what?” Amy prompts him after a moment.

“You were right that morning in the break room,” he says quietly. “When you were talking about, uh, the nature of free will. I didn’t realize how important it was to me until after we talked, but -”

“The morning my brother found his soulmate,” she interrupts suddenly, understanding washing through her. “Oh, Jake,” she says softly, “I was such an ass about it -”

“No, you were right,” he insists. “I had never really thought about it that way. It made me rethink a lot of things, actually. I realized I had been planning my whole life around - well, around  _you_. But I didn’t even know you. It’s like you said, some cosmic force just decided that that’s how things were gonna be for me, and I never questioned it. But after we talked that morning, I realized that I wanted to want this. I wanted to want  _you_. Not because someone else said I should, but because I  _chose_ to. And I - I wanted you to, uh, choose me. So…” he sucks in a deep breath, and Amy’s chin ticks up a degree. “You don’t have any obligation to me, Ames.” he says, pleasantly surprised to find his voice unwavering. “If this isn’t what you want, I…I get it. Really.” He tries to ignore the sharp ache in his chest as the words leave his lips, but based on the way her face crumbles he’s certain he’s done a terrible job. “Okay, eventually. I’ll get it  _eventually_.” A half-smile quirks the corner of her mouth upward, and he feels himself steadying. “But if…if this is something you want…I’m yours. I want you. I choose you.”

It’s strange - up until now, he thought he’d felt every single one of Amy Santiago’s emotions. This one - this swelling, morphing mass of something - is entirely new to him, though. It’s bubbling up and folding in on itself, growing faster than he can comprehend, intensifying tenfold with each slow, tentative step Amy takes closer to him, and now her molten gaze has him pinned in place all the moisture in his mouth evaporating in an instant -

Her hands are warm and steady where they brush against his jaw and curl around the back of his neck, firm when they tug him down two inches, soft where they gently skate up into his hair. Her lips are pliant against his, coaxing and inviting, moving with him in perfect synchronization.

Amy Santiago is an excellent kisser.

But above everything else, Jake feels radiant acceptance swelling like a warm hug around his tripping heart. She wants him, too, it’s in her hands and her lips and her steady, steady heartbeat. He all but melts against her, releasing an involuntary hum as the tension leaks from his joints and his hands slide up the gentle slope of her spine. She lets out a little hum of her own when his fingers spread and flex over the space between her shoulder blades, and he tucks the sound away, fully intent on figuring out exactly how to make her do it again.

She pulls away first, pressing a hand to the side of his face when he momentarily strains to follow, and for a long moment they stand foreheads flush together, trying to catch their breaths. Her left arm flexes where it’s wrapped around his neck and he slowly curls his fingers around the curve of her waist, smiling at her quiet, breathless laugh.

“You really meant that, didn’t you?” she whispers.

He swallows thickly, reveling in the warmth of her skin seeping through his shirt, ignoring the now-distant ache in his chest at the thought of her not wanting this. “Yeah,” he breathes, and it’s the strangest thing - it’s like his conviction is echoing back to him.

She pulls away to look him in the eye, though her grip around his neck never falters; he bites back a smile at the feeling of her fingers curling into the material of his hoodie. “This is - it’s - a lot,” she mumbles, eyes briefly squeezing shut. “Like, a lot to process - is it usually this intense?”

“Never,” he says quickly. “I mean, like, sometimes if emotions were running high - like if you were really pissed off about something, or, like, having a panic attack - but that was before you could - I mean, that was when it was just me. I don’t - I don’t really know what happens now.”

She nods slowly, eyes darting down to his lips for the barest second before meeting his gaze again. “I…really want to find out,” she whispers.

It takes all of one nanosecond before the joy comes blazing in - a tsunami of it, all-encompassing and all-consuming. He yanks her back to him sharply, her responding laughter little more than a muffled buzz against his lips and a pleasant simmer in his belly. Fear and dread and panic are nothing more than distant memories now, and through it all Jake finds himself wondering why on  _earth_ he didn’t do this sooner.

“Jake -” he cuts her off with another kiss, earning yet another muffled laugh, pressing against her over and over again until he’s effectively smothering her. “Jake - Jake, let’s -  _Jake_!”

He’s laughing when he pulls away, biting his lip, reaching up to touch the tendrils of hair fallen from her bun. “Sorry,” he mumbles, not sorry at all, “I’ve just been waiting for a really long time to do that -”

“I’m not saying we have to stop,” she says, “just - let’s go somewhere, anywhere else. I don’t even care where, just - together.”

“I smell like a dumpster, so -”

“Me too.”

“- shower? And then somewhere? I can pick you up at your apartment -”

“Or we could just…both go somewhere that has a shower.”

There’s mischief in her eyes and excitement in her veins and he can’t tamp down the grin on his face if he tried. “I think I know a place,” he says pseudo-thoughtfully, and this time it’s Amy pressing her lips to his to smother his laughter.

“Let’s go together,” she says when she pulls away too soon. “We can come back for the other car tomorrow, but let’s go together.”

“Yeah,” he says, an absurd hitch in his voice. “Together.”

She steps back and the loss of her heat against him is jarring until her fingers lace through his and gently squeeze; her affection and adoration is an undeniable hearth in his heart glowing in her eyes. “Together,” she whispers, chin briefly touching his shoulder.

There’s an urge somewhere deep to tack something stupid like ‘forever’ on the end, but he ignores it in favor of a broad, blinding grin.

(That hearth has grown to a wildfire still raging by morning, when he emerges from his bedroom dazed from sleep and everything else to find Amy padding around his kitchen, hair tousled, grin soft with the same affection he feels in her stuttering heart.)


End file.
